


the new guy

by Naraht



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-11 05:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10456914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: The Providence Falconers get a new Russian teammate, straight from SKA Saint Petersburg and the Yubileyny Sports Palace. He's not quite what they were expecting.(An occasional series of vignettes.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you read all of _Check Please!_ and then write a fic in less than 24 hours. I apologise in advance for any sports or canon inaccuracies; do let me know if you find any.
> 
> Please note that there are implications of homophobia in this fic, given that Victor is visiting the _Check Please!_ universe.
> 
> [And have a video of Evgeni Plushenko playing with his hockey team](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3bUFP9qpis).

On the ice, under helmets and visors and all that protective padding, hockey players all look pretty much the same. You distinguish one man from the next by his position, the number on his back and the style of his play, not by his fashion sense.

Naturally Marty has done his research on their new team member, in the sense of watching a few videos of recent SKA Saint Petersburg games. He's no Malkin or Ovechkin, but he looks good – good enough for an expansion team like the Falcs anyway. What Marty hasn't done is search out any interviews, because they're probably all in Russian. What Marty hasn't done is seen any pictures of the man off the ice.

So whatever he's expecting when the newest member of the Providence Falconers walks through the door of the nook, it isn't this.

Their new teammate takes off his sunglasses, smiles a wide, sunny smile, and waves at the lot of them as if they're a bunch of fans and he's about to start signing autographs. 

"Hello! I'm Victor Nikiforov!"

Most of the guys don't clean up too badly when they need to, but they're not exactly fashion plates. A button-down shirt, a nice sport coat... if the fit isn't great, that's probably because most clothes aren't cut for hockey players, right? Right?

Nikiforov has clearly never needed to use that excuse.

The style and the cut of his clothes, not to mention the way he carries himself, scream 'male model' much more than 'hockey bro.' He's only a shade under six feet (which will mean about 6'1" in the official stats) and he's well built, but he has an elegance that very few men manage when they spend all day trading body checks in shoulder pads. He also has a Burberry coat (Gabby wanted one last year, Marty knows how much those things cost), a cashmere sweater, and a gold bangle on one wrist. His silver hair is cut to fall over one eye in a way that makes it clear it's not accidental.

 _He's Russian?_ thinks Marty. _He's a hockey player?_ And then: _What the hell is he doing on this team?_

Clearly not delayed by any such doubts, Mashkov is already on his feet greeting the new arrival in rapid-fire Russian. Nikiforov responds in kind. His fluent, enthusiastic gestures are almost enough to make his meaning transparent – but not quite.

Marty knows that Mashkov has been a little lonely for the past year, being the only Russian on the team, but he's seen linguistic cliques forming before – being French Canadian, he's been part of a few himself – and it's not what he wants for the Falconers. It can play hell with team cohesion.

So he gets up from the couch and goes to put in a few words before this becomes a Russian-only party.

"Hi," he says, shaking hands and giving Nikiforov a slap on the back. "I'm Marty. Team co-captain. Welcome to Providence. Do you speak English?"

He speaks slowly and carefully. Sure, the guy said hello, but in this global world practically everyone can say hello. There's no sign of an interpreter. He hopes to God that they won't need an interpreter. Getting Mashkov even to basic fluency has been a long, painful road, and arguably they're still not there yet.

Nikiforov smiles that smile again. "Yes, I do, it's good of you to ask." And then he transitions into impeccable, almost unaccented Parisian French: " _Sebastian St-Martin – you're Québécois, aren't you? I also speak French, if you'd prefer._ "

" _English is fine, thanks,_ " says Marty, accidentally still in French. 

This is not quite the culture clash he was expecting.

"Great, English then! I'm so excited to be part of the team! Shall we get on the ice?"

Still sitting on the couch, Jack looks at his new teammate with a face like thunder.

***

Victor Nikiforov can play hockey. There was no doubt about that from the YouTube videos; there's even less doubt in person.

He may not be able to accelerate quite as quickly as Marty – his legs are too long for that – and his puck control could use a little refinement, but his agility and edgework are unreal. This is really some Crosby-level shit. They run him ragged with drills and then send in Mashkov to put in a few hits for good measure. Just to keep him from getting too cocky on his first day.

When it's all over, Nikiforov pulls the helmet from his head. He's dripping with sweat, his silver hair plastered back from his face in damp strands. Without all that styling it's obvious that he has a really high forehead.

"Not bad," says Marty.

"Thanks," says Nikiforov, leaning against the boards and taking a big swallow from a water bottle.

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you decide to come to the States? You were a star in Russia, weren't you?"

"I'm not good enough," says Nikiforov matter-of-factly, as if the admission doesn't dent his ego at all. "Not on an international level. I loved skating for SKA Saint Petersburg but I want to get better, to have people know who I am. Really I haven't been playing hockey very long."

"No?" 

"I was a figure skater until I was seventeen."

Of course he was. Marty had suspected it the moment Nikiforov walked through the door, but he had pushed the idea out of his mind.

Because you can't say – you probably shouldn't even think – that a hockey player looks like a figure skater when what you really mean is: _he has great fashion sense and looks like he goes to an expensive hair salon._ You're basically saying _that guy looks really gay_ , and there are anti-harassment policies about that sort of thing now. But there's no getting around it: Victor Nikiforov looks really gay, and now it all makes sense because he's just come out as a former figure skater.

"And were you any good?" asks Marty. 

He takes a look and tries to imagine Nikiforov minus about twenty-five pounds of muscle. It's not impossible. In fact it's not too difficult.

"Yes, I was very good," says Nikiforov with an equal matter of factness. "Extremely good. I won the World Junior championships in Budapest when I was sixteen."

A dim image floats to the surface of his memory: a slender teenage boy in black lycra and mesh, with unearthly, waist-length silver hair flying behind him. 

"Fuck, I remember that! My little sister had a poster of you on her wall. You had flow." He'd never paid that much attention but he has the feeling that this guy was like the Justin Bieber of figure skating. Which begs the question. "Why'd you quit?"

There must be a story behind it – probably something like Jack's, thinks Marty in sudden horror. Maybe that's why Nikiforov left Russia as well, trying for a second time to get a fresh start on things. Damn. He shouldn't have asked.

But Nikiforov only smiles that thousand-watt smile of his. "Because it was getting dull. I wanted a challenge. I wanted to surprise people."

"Well yeah, that would do it."

"I intend to surprise people here, too."

 _No shit,_ thinks Marty, _you've done that already._

And then: _Jack Zimmermann had better watch out._


	2. Chapter 2

**Observation:** Apparently in Russian Tater comes across as some sort of an intellectual. If you believe Nikiforov.

"Yeah, he's doing a correspondence course or whatever," says Thirdy one day in the nook. "Thought he was working on his English."

Tater is bent over a notepad, as he usually is at this time of day, laboriously forming the weird loops of Russian cursive with his pen clutched awkwardly in his massive left hand. English is the charitable interpretation, and an unlikely one because there are never any English words on the page. Most of the guys assume that he's getting the Russian equivalent of a GED.

"He's writing his masters thesis on Mayakovsky's plays," says Nikiforov, his eyes widening with admiration. "Amazing! I never even finished high school."

 **Observation:** Before the week is out, Tater and Nikiforov are calling each other 'Vitya' and 'Alyosha,' which are not hockey-approved nicknames.

 **Observation:** Nikiforov is teaching Tater figure skating lifts. The guys get to the rink one day only to find that the two of them are on the ice already, without pads. Nikiforov is held in Tater's arms and draped across his half-bent knees like some sort of dying swan while Tater slowly circles the rink with an expression of painful pride on his face.

"Like Johnny and Stéphane," explains Nikiforov sunnily in the locker room afterwards while putting on his shin guards. "I've always wanted to try doing that. Alyosha's about the only person who could actually lift me."

"Easier," grumbles Tater, "if you light like Johnny."

 **Conclusion:** _I guess they're both lonely here in America,_ thinks Marty. _I guess it makes sense._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Marty, I'm not sure what to make of this. But there it is.
> 
> Anyway, when Lambiel and Weir decided to practice lifts together, it looked like [this](http://johnnyweirtohostsnl.tumblr.com/post/154880594450/johnnygweir-wheeeeeeslambiel-fantasyonice2016)


	3. Chapter 3

"I still can't believe that you're playing hockey with THE Victor Nikiforov," gushes Bitty over Skype.

"Don't be so impressed," says Jack. "He's shit. Sure, he can dodge defenders like nobody's business but he gets halfway across the ice and realizes he's left the puck behind."

Bitty laughs despite himself.

"And he thinks he's God's gift to ice hockey. He won some Juniors medal in Albania ten years ago and he expects us all to fall down at his feet in gratitude that he joined the Falcs." Jack shakes his head. "I don't know why they signed him. Figure skaters. They're on no one's team but their own. Back in Montreal I had to share a rink with _Jean-Jacques Leroy_ , you can't say I don't know."

He curves his hands in a perfect _J. J. Style_ and grins an ironic, white-toothed grin. It's almost enough to distract Bitty from the twinge of pain in his heart.

"I was a figure skater, Jack," he says quietly.

Jack stutters a quick, awkward retraction. "But not, not _really_. I mean – you _were_ – "

 _I was never good enough to really count_ , thinks Bitty, and he doesn't even mind because he's moved on from that. And so has Victor, who could have had the world at his feet.

"I practically cried myself to sleep when I heard that he was quitting skating. Figure skating, I mean." 

He makes it sound like a figure of speech. In fact he did cry himself to sleep, and more than one night in a row, but he figures that Jack doesn't need to know the details of his embarassing middle-school crushes. Victor Nikiforov, with that long silver hair and graceful figure, made a bunch of boys across the world feel really confused; another bunch of boys, Bitty among them, looked at him and knew without question that they were gay. Victor Nikiforov also gave Bitty his first inkling that playing hockey might not be a completely crazy idea.

But he doesn't say this, because he's starting to understand that Jack isn't just bitching about the new guy. He really does hate Nikiforov.

"He's a jerk," says Jack. "I'm sorry if you liked him when you were a kid, but you'll see what I mean when you meet him. The worst thing is that Taters and Marty got, like, taken in by the act. That fake smile."

A muscle at the side of his jaw twitches involuntarily.

"I guess he was team captain in Saint Petersburg," he continues, "and now he just expects to waltz in and...."

Bitty breathes a deep, sympathetic breath. He wishes now that he hadn't said anything about admiring Nikiforov, because he suddenly understands.

Jack is scared. Jack is terrified. He's managed to make the leap to the NHL, he's spent a year getting a foothold at the Falcs. People were starting to respect him, people were starting to talk about him. And now he thinks that Victor Nikiforov is going to come in and take it all away.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack had first mentioned the idea to Bitty a couple of weeks ago, offhandedly, like he'd thought Bitty wouldn't be interested in driving all the way to Providence at a time when he should be studying for finals. Or like he was afraid Bitty would be _too_ interested.

"Yeah, Tater is having a party," he'd said. "To watch some figure skating thing, you know, the one that sounds like Formula One..."

"The Grand Prix Final."

"That's it. Anyway, for some reason all the guys are going, so I guess I need to go too. You're invited, if you want. If you want to meet Silver. It was his idea, obviously. Tater didn't give a damn about figure skating until this season."

Bitty tried to suppress a flutter in his stomach at the thought of actually meeting Victor Nikiforov. It wasn't how he'd ever imagined it happening, but then sharing a podium at the Olympics had probably never been on the cards. Now... well, it wasn't really about Nikiforov, was it?

"Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean, if you want me to come?"

"I always want you to."

"I'll bring a pie," said Bitty decisively.

***

You wouldn't have thought that there was a living legend in the room.

Bitty stood in the doorway, holding a cherry pie self-consciously in both hands, quickly scanning the faces of the hockey players who crowded the anonymous condo living room. They were already well into the beer, and not too many of them were bothering with the big screen TV. He wondered whether Victor Nikiforov had even showed up to the party after all. Not that he was here for Victor Nikiforov, or anything.

"I'm, uh, Jack's friend," he said, thrusting the pie into Alexei Mashkov's hands like a peace offering. "I used to figure skate, and so he..."

"Yes! Jack said. He not here yet, but Vitya, he on couch. Over there. Free program about to start."

For a moment Bitty blinked, not sure who Mashkov was talking about.

"Victor," said Mashkov, gesturing with his chin. "Jack call him Silver. Not because of hair, I think, whatever he say."

In the far corner of the couch, a man sat with his feet curled up under him, a bottle of beer in hand, looking intently at the TV screen, which was showing the end of warm-ups. No one else seemed to be taking any notice.

Bitty wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Sequins? Shining long hair blown glamorously out in the breeze, like he brought along stage lights and a fan and a fashion photographer wherever he went? Victor Nikiforov was wearing a hoodie and jeans, and he had short hair, and – taking a swig of beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand – he looked a little tired. Or maybe that was just because Bitty was expecting a boy of sixteen, and not a man of nearly thirty.

"Go, sit down," said Mashkov, giving him a nudge towards the couch that, because of his size and weight, came across as more of a full-blown shove. "Take beer. I put out pie."

Bitty went and sat down. He took the other end of the couch, not wanting to intrude. But it was really more of a loveseat, which made things difficult.

Victor turned and gave him a non-committal smile. "I'm Victor."

He narrowly kept himself from saying _I know who you are._ "Call me Bitty. I'm..."

 _Jack's friend._ Why did it get more difficult to say it every time, like he was on the verge of coming out to everyone he met? And if there was anyone on the Falcs who wouldn't give him shit for being gay, it was... no, that was ridiculous. He didn't know Victor Nikiforov; he didn't know the first thing about him. Actually, he didn't even know for certain that Victor _was_ gay.

"Ah yes, I know who you are," said Victor, somehow managing to look down his retroussé nose at him. "Jack's friend."

"Yeah," said Bitty.

_Oh god, he knows Jack doesn't like him. Jack said he was a jerk, maybe he really is, I should have listened to Jack. Maybe I should just get up and..._

But he didn't get up. Instead he found himself staring transfixed at the screen as Yuri Plisetsky, a moment after the end of the warm-up had been called, launched himself into a big quad toe loop. He missed the landing entirely and went sprawling across the ice.

Bitty inhaled sharply. Beside him, in unison, Victor took his own sympathetic breath.

Then Victor shook his head. "Oh, Yura..." 

"You know him?"

"Not very well. My old coach is his coach and we used to share a rink. That's all."

Although he wanted to ask more questions about Yuri Plisetsky, Bitty reminded himself that he was just about to get up. Quietly he leaned forward and... Victor put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Don't go now, it's just about to start." 

He waved across the room at Tater, said something in Russian. When Tater came over with a couple more bottles of beer, Bitty figured that there was nothing for it. There were worse fates than sitting on a couch watching the Grand Prix Final with Victor Nikiforov.

In the end it wasn't even awkward. Victor kept up a running commentary on the competitors that made Bitty think that he had a future on Match TV once he retired from the NHL. Hell, he probably had a future on NBC. He mercilessly eviscerated Michele Crispino, took apart Yuri Plisetsky's youthful lack of polish, and commented – with the attention to detail of a connoisseur – on whether or not the choice of camera angles flattered Christophe Giacometti's ass.

Then, halfway through Jean-Jacques Leroy's routine, he got bored and wandered off in search of pizza. He was just settling himself back on the couch when the scores came in.

"That's bullshit scoring!" exploded Bitty, unable to restrain himself. Leroy had gone into first place.

Victor cocked his head at the screen. "Who's that again?"

***

_MEN, FINAL RESULT_

_1\. Jean-Jacques LEROY 300.62_  
_2\. Otabek ALTIN 293.41_  
_3\. Christophe GIACOMETTI 290.69_  
_4\. Phichit CHULANONT 289.56_  
_5\. Yuri PLISETSKY 287.29_  
_6\. Michele CRISPINO 279.31_

"It's very good for a senior debut," said Victor, "but Yuri could have done better. He has talent but no discipline. That's what Yakov says." 

A pause. 

"Of course," Victor added, "he always said the same about me. But he was right."

An instinctive objection died on Bitty's lips. All his past hero worship wasn't quite enough to blind him to the fact that Victor Nikiforov had never tested himself as a competitive figure skater at the senior level. Yuri Plisetsky, at fifteen, had already gone beyond him.

"Why did you quit?" asked Bitty before he could stop himself.

"Because everyone assumed that I was going to be the next Johnny Weir. That I was going to be pretty and wear sequins and..."

"And you hated it?" Bitty surmised, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He remembered all those pictures he printed off the internet – mesh and glitter and, in retrospect, who lets a sixteen-year-old wear a costume with that many cutouts? – and cringed at the thought of someone, some coach, forcing the boy into it for the sake of his image. And Bitty'd had no idea. He'd thought it was amazing.

"No," said Victor quickly, "of course I loved it! Who doesn't love sequins? But they're not the only thing I love, and they made people forget that I was an athlete too. The Americans especially. They thought that was all I was ever going to be for the whole of my career – a _gay icon_." You could practically hear the quotation marks around the words. "If I'd decided to try something different they would have said that I was buckling under the pressure, that the FSFR had gotten to me. If I kept on doing the same thing, I would have hated it all eventually, even the sequins. So I decided to do something so different that no one would have any idea what to say about it. And I did, and here I am."

"Oh," said Bitty slowly. "But don't you ever..."

"Wonder what I could have done in seniors? Of course I do! Chris Giacometti... you know Chris?"

Bitty nodded. "Yeah. Well, I don't _know_ know him, but I know about him. Obviously."

How could anyone not have heard of Christophe Giacometti? He had dominated men's figure skating for the past five years with his outrageous routines. Not to mention his ass.

"He was fourteen when I won in Budapest. I threw a tulip to him, apparently; I don't remember but he still talks about it in interviews. Three world championships since then, and an Olympic gold, even if he didn't do so well today. I can't help but wonder... could that have been me? Could I have done that?" He shrugged and smiled. "But I'll never know! So now I just have to win the Stanley Cup and then get to Pyeongyang and win a team gold in hockey!"

There was something relentless, almost pitiless in Victor's positivity, as relentless as the dedication and discipline that it took (or so Bitty imagined) to be an elite athlete. There was something a bit painful about it too. Just like being an elite athlete.

"Besides," Victor added, more quietly and more reflectively, looking at the black screen of the turned-off television, "I'm twenty-seven. If I'd stayed a figure skater I'd almost certainly be retired by now. Isn't that sad?"


End file.
